Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (40 page)

As I come back
from my terrible visit to my past, I have to wonder. Just who is the therapist
here? Like a skilled counselor, Grant doesn’t interrupt me with awkward,
unwanted questions, nor does he lose his level-headed equanimity.

He’s so good to
me. Maybe, I should be paying him.

“Close your
eyes and I'll kiss you, Tomorrow I'll miss you.”

― Paul
McCartney

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Briley wakes me
at six in the morning. I can’t believe he let me sleep through the night,
especially since it’s his first night in a new place. What a great baby!

When I open my
eyes, I see the weather has turned dark and rainy, not just a little rainy…
it’s pouring outside. I check, no new emails and my iPad forecasts showers and
storms all day long.

I should've known
that was a bad omen, but I was too happy at the time to think of it.

Despite the
lousy start to my day caused by my horrendous nightmare, I slept surprisingly
well, although I probably only got about five hours total.

I chat and play
with Briley while I change his diaper. He’s so easy to care for, and the
generous smiles he bestows on me makes my heart melt.

I wander
downstairs to the kitchen and take my anti-depressant, first thing, with a
small glass of milk. Assuming I'd be awakened by a hungry baby sometime during
the night, I'd prepared his bottle before I went to bed. Now, I just have to
add warm water, shake it up and feed him.

Grant has an
old-fashioned percolator type of coffeepot. With the baby in my arms, I switch
that on while mixing Briley’s baby formula.

Mitten meows
politely, so I open the front door and let him out.

Dressed in a
bathrobe, I talk cheerfully to Briley the entire time I take care of these
tasks. I shower him with compliments, tell him what I'm doing and explain the
reasons why. He’s a responsive little thing, smiling and excited to have my
attention.

When his bottle
is ready, I sit on the couch in the downstairs family room, overlooking Grant’s
garden. I hold Briley on my lap while I give him his bottle. He’s soft, warm and
cuddly.

There is nothing
quite like the pleasure of holding and feeding a baby. I feel as if every
mothering hormone I have is standing up, stretching out their arms and singing
loudly from the joy of it.

All is right in
my world and it’s
more
than just 'right.'

There is nowhere
else I’d rather be than right here, right now. Of course, this is all enhanced
by the ultimate pleasure of living in the same house as Grant.

Speak of the
devil… my breath catches as I hear the sound of feet lightly jogging down the
stairs.

Grant’s coming!
My stomach does somersaults at the thought of seeing him. Talk about a
stimulus-response reaction. My breasts tingle and my inner core pools with
heated anticipation. He’s almost here!

I attempt to
paste a calm, nonchalant look on my face and try not to think about how
tragically pathetic I am for this overreaction. Yes, I’m in the throes of a
wild and crazy crush. Yes, it seem like
true love.
No, I can’t see
myself getting over it anytime soon. And no, I couldn’t be happier.

As though I’ve
conjured him up from a sexy, wet dream, the man himself enters the room dressed
in a snug tank top, running shorts and running shoes. He’s smoking hot. But
he's not just
any
hot guy.

It isn’t only
Grant’s body that attracts me—it’s
him, all of him
. We’re drawn to each
other by chemistry and maybe more. Whatever it is, it's intense. We both know
it, we both
feel
it.

“Mornin’,” he
nods with a slow, easy smile.

“Hi,” I reply,
bowled over just at seeing him again.

“Did you sleep
all right,” he hesitates, “after that bad dream?”

“Strangely, yes,
I did,” I tell him.

My eyes travel
slowly down his long, lean body, drinking in every inch of his splendor. He's
all slim hips, narrow waist and broad shoulders. Everything about Grant is so
incredibly
hard.
I can’t help but be in awe of the sheer male power of
him.

Is he going out
for a jog? That's real dedication, especially in
this
weather. Mmm,
he’ll come back all sweaty and manly, smelling fantastic… good enough to eat.
My mouth waters at the thought.

A flash of white
hot lust zips through me. I raise my head to meet his gaze and my heart
stutters.

“What?” he asks.
One eyebrow arches with a look of inquiry.

“You’re just so
damned beautiful,” I tell him.

Shock and
surprise register on his features. He snorts, then laughs—a rich, masculine
sound. “You need your vision checked, darlin,’” he says.

I think I’ve
both pleased and embarrassed him. We stare at each other for a long, long
moment. His eyes hunger for acceptance…and something else. Is it love? Damned
if I have any idea what mine are communicating to him.

This
self-reliant, ultra-self-contained man wants and
needs
me.

The tension
between us grows, sensually charging the air. Grant looks away first, ending
the moment.

“I'm going out
for a run now,” he says. “I’ll be back soon.”

I watch every
long, lean inch of him as he strides past the kitchen and around the corner,
out of my sight. A couple of seconds later, I hear the front door open and then
shut.

Grant’s gone.

Briley soon
falls asleep in my arms. I put him over my shoulder and burp him as I walk
upstairs. I carefully place him on his back in his crib and kiss his forehead.
He’s still dressed in his baby sleep sack, so he won’t get cold.

I take a quick
shower and get dressed. Keeping in line with the sensible nanny concept, I put
on a white cotton button-down blouse, coffee colored shorts and a linen drape
jacket. I also apply a tiny amount of make-up, brush my hair, don white leather
sandals and I’m done.

Just in time,
too, as the doorbell rings. I check my phone—it’s only 7 a.m. Who would visit
at this hour? Perhaps Grant forgot his key?

Without a care
in the world, I blithely open the door.

Several
policemen are standing on the doorstep. All except one are in uniform. An
emotional tidal wave of terror crashes down over me.

Who died?

Memories of
Jamie’s death, the deaths of my baby brother and my mother all slam full-force
into my mind. I’m instantly transported to my past in just a heartbeat. My body
begins to shake uncontrollably.

Is Grant dead?
Prior bullying encounters with men in police uniforms flood my thoughts. Why
are they here? What do they want with me?

Someone whimpers
and a moment later I realize the sound is coming from me.

Suddenly, I’m
terrified.

A full-blown
panic attack instantly hits me. Usually, I have some sort of warning before a
complete meltdown strikes, but not today.

I have to get
out. I can’t be here!

I’m
suffocating. I can’t breathe!

My chest heaves.
I can’t control it. Panting in short, fast gulps, I gasp for breath.

I’m like a
frightened animal. Whatever logical thoughts I had, scatter into jagged
fragments of visceral terror.

I want to run
away as fast and as far as my feet will take me, but I'm unable to move. My
vision tunnels.

Will I live
or will I die?

Shut up,
stupid!

Fuck, fuck,
fuck!

This is going to
be bad. Something awful is happening! A sense of impending doom takes over my
mind.

I
hurt!
This chest pain is agonizing. Am I having a heart attack? No, of course not.
It’s never actually been my heart. This is just another panic attack.

I’m OK. I’m
OK. I’m OK.

But I feel as
though I’m going to die.

My heart races,
pounding like a drum in my ears. I clutch my chest and gasp for air.

Someone's
talking to me—I try to tune in for a moment, becoming briefly aware his lips
are moving, but I can’t seem to understand a word he says. I can’t hear
anything other than the wild beat of my racing heart. Every sound is
incomprehensible white noise.

There’s a
terrible knot in my stomach.

Please, God!
Where is Grant? I need Grant!

I haven’t had
one of these attacks for
ages.
I’ve forgotten how painful they are.
I
can’t think! I can’t think! I’m so frightened!
In this horrifying moment, I
can barely remember my own name.

Am I going to
pass out?
My fingers and my toes tingle, my muscles jump and twitch. Pain
shoots down my legs.

Am I losing
my mind?

I struggle to
focus on relaxing my muscles and slowing my breathing. With my hands on my chest,
I inhale and count my breaths.

I’m OK. I’m
OK. I’m OK. I’m OK,
I begin my mental chant.

The words help
me focus. I’m OK…
one,
I’m OK…
two,
I’m OK…
three...

For a moment, I
actually
see
the faces of the men in front of me. This is too funny! I’m
overwhelmed by a wild and reckless desire to hysterically laugh out loud.

They look as
scared as I feel.

“There is no intimacy
without vulnerability.”

― Brené Brown

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

I’m drenched
through and through. A heavy rain beats down on me, but I don’t think I’ve
ever
felt lighter.

I usually jog
but today, I’m so happy I effortlessly
sprint.
Everything’s so easy. I’m
not even breathing hard.

Life is
good!

My shoes smack
against the wet pavement in a rapid rhythm as I run.

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

I take a 5-mile
run at least four days a week. It usually takes me 30 to 35 minutes from start
to finish, but I'm so full of energy this morning. I’m totally buzzed. Today,
at my current speed, I’ll be done in well under thirty minutes. That's great.
I’ll get to be home with Renata that much sooner.

Body, mind,
spirit—it’s that triangle again.

My mind and
spirit are light and free, so this is reflected in my body. I feel as though I
could run all the way to the Oklahoma border and not get tired.

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

I’ve spent my
life being closed off, holding on tightly to my secrets. I buried my emotions,
keeping everyone at a safe distance. I never opened up before meeting André.

Today, I’m so
happy, I feel as though I could share my story with the whole world.

A little brown
dog runs toward me, barking all the way. Usually this annoys me, but not today.
I don’t speed up or try to avoid him.

“Good dog!” I
yell cheerfully.

This stops him
in his tracks. I laugh out loud at the confusion on his cute doggy face.

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

I place my hand
on my face, feeling my scars. It was after this injury I hit rock bottom.
Reaching out to André was the best decision I ever made.  Of all of the points
of view in the world, André has one of the best. He’s known many who’ve lived
through childhoods like my own.

I was my own
worst enemy.

André freed me
from guilt. I’ll always be grateful to him for everything he's done, but
introducing me to Renata? That is a debt I can never repay.

Renata has
expanded my world.

I’m learning how
to trust, how to be open and bare my soul. André was the first, and now Renata.
They both understand my fears. They understand
me
.

Once I thought
asking for help showed weakness. I admired independence and self-sufficiency.
To my mind, a man showing weakness was the worst possible sin.

Now, I see it as
a strength.

It could only
have happened with people I trust. Who would've thought exposing my secrets
would set me free? How could I know speaking of my darkest shame would create
such soul soaring elation?

My view of the
world is changing so fast I can hardly keep up with it.

Renata chases
away the darkness that surrounds me. I admire her so much. I can hardly believe
the shitty childhood she endured.

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

Last night
Renata told me I’m the third person to whom she’s divulged her story. André, of
course, was the first. Her good friend, Diana, the woman she rents her
apartment from, was the second.

I’m honored she
confided in me.

It broke my
heart to see her shaking and crying after her nightmare. Usually the mere
thought of touching someone makes me queasy, yet wrapping my arms around her
felt like the most natural thing in the world.

Renata was a
battered child and her father was a monster. On her twelfth birthday, Renata’s
father beat her mother and her baby brother to death, right in front of her
eyes.

What a birthday
gift.

Renata’s mom was
severely depressed, so Renata held the mother role for her little brother.
Irrationally, she blames herself for his death. Just like me, a sense of guilt
has rested heavily upon her shoulders from an early age.

Abuse destroys
reason, replacing it with senseless guilt and shame.

“Hey,” a fellow
jogger says while coming toward me. Drenched by the pouring rain, he passes me
on the footpath, giving me a wave. I can barely see him.

“Mornin,’” I
say, grinning and waving back. What kind of nut case goes out on a day like
today? I’m not the only crazy one it seems.

When you're on
the outside looking in, it's easy to see how ridiculous it is for Renata to
feel responsible for the horrors of her past. She was a victim. How could she
be accountable for her abusive, murdering father? Yet, she still blamed
herself.

I did exactly
the same thing.

After the
murders, Renata was placed in a family in which the foster-father was a
pedophile. What the hell kind of world allows shit like this to happen to kids?
Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire! Renata seemed to have
skipped the frying pan altogether and just burned, and burned and then burned
some more!

When her foster
brother died—that was her breaking point. She was committed into a psychiatric
hospital immediately after that.

Yet, like the
legendary phoenix, she rose from those ashes.

Renata used to
have nightmares regularly. Now, she only has them once or twice a year. She
thinks that last night's dream was brought about because of being a caregiver
with Briley—another baby boy, so much like her lost brother, Timmy.

A crash of
thunder rolls off in the distance.

Dark and gloomy,
the sky is as black as pre-dawn. Yet, the colors look more vibrant than ever
before. Somehow, there's so much light surrounding me. With the mood I’m in,
all I see is a perfect day.

For a moment, my
mind returns to the conversation we had early this morning, when I woke her
from her nightmare. Renata cried, but I’d wept too. I cried for her lost
childhood, for her grief and her loneliness.

I’ve never cried
in front of another person in my entire life. After years of holding everything
in, allowing full vent to my emotions was liberating. Shoulders and chest
shaking, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, it had been cathartic to let go.

Renata accepts
me. Now, I can accept myself.

I close my eyes
for a moment as I run, feeling her hands on my face again, her fingers wiping
away my tears away.

“Are you
crying for me?” she asked, wonder shining in her expression.

“Yes. For
you, for me and for every child who suffers in the world.”

“That’s
beautiful.”

“My father
taught me only pussies cry. I haven’t shed a single tear since I was a boy.
Even then, I was ashamed of myself and I only cried in secret. I’ve never cried
in front of anyone before, but—”

“But what?”

“But I don’t
need to hide from you. You won’t think me less of a man. It feels safe and
right to cry with you.”

Being ashamed of
who I am trapped me.

Being able to be
myself has set me free.

And to think
this seemingly fearless woman has always considered herself a mouse! How ironic.
I’ve always seen myself as someone full of hate—a dangerous, perverted monster.

The monster and
the mouse.

Who would've
thought the two of us would be so compatible?

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

Normal, everyday
things others take for granted are a challenge for Renata. She has to work up
the courage just to go outside, to look people in the face and to talk to
strangers.

I don’t see her
flaws.

All I’m aware of
is her caring good nature and her humor. All I see is the quiet, capable side
of her. Vulnerable, yet resilient, I find her presence soothing. Renata’s
healing me… she’s saving me.

Renata’s my
hero.

She reminds me
of the monarch butterfly. Incredibly strong, yet delicate, the amazing creature
flies 5000 miles on its yearly migration. Like the butterfly, Renata has
overcome challenges that would destroy most people.

How did she do
it?

Was it a choice?
A kind of
to hell with you
or a
fuck you
decision? Was Renata
determined to succeed as a way not to let her asshole father win?

As I skirt
around a parked car, a thought strikes me. Could it be that Renata is so
caring, understanding and positive—not in spite of—
but because
of her
terrible past?

That which
doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,
they say, but does it teach us to be
kinder and more understanding too?

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

Tremendous heat
and pressure can create diamonds from common coal. Perhaps surviving intense
adversity develops a person, improving them in all the important ways.

I laugh then, as
I think of André.

To my mind,
André has countless super-human qualities. If adversity advances people, making
them kinder and more understanding—then his childhood must have been
really
bad!

I wonder what
his story is?

Renata and I
both have to thank André. He set us both on the road to recovery. It seems to
me, his presence in this world is just about all the proof needed to decide God
exists.

Renata is one of
the nicest people I’ve ever known, and she had a terrible past. What does that
make me?

Grateful, for a
start.

I’m so glad to
be alive!

Compared to
Renata’s history, my childhood issues don’t seem nearly as bad. I never went
hungry. No one beat me or killed anyone in my family. I always had a roof over
my head.

Renata fills me
with hope. She’s going to help me. Together, we’ll work through all of my shit.
I plan to tell her everything.

Except I
suspect my brother killed our father.

Except for
how I earned these scars…

My feet stumble
as I trip over flat, open road. A voice in the back of my mind reminds me of
the things I still can’t tell.

Never mind,
I’ll be open about everything else.

I’m breathing
hard now. I’ve never done my morning run so quickly. I should slow down because
I’m almost home, yet I don’t want to. I’m on such a high.

Slap, slap,
slap, slap.

As I round the
corner to my house, I see police cars.

What the
fuck? What’s going on?

I actually speed
up rather than slow down—now I’m running the four-minute mile.

Is Renata OK?
Did something happen to the baby?

But then I
remember.

Someone killed
my father.

But why would
the police suspect
me?